My Baby Said That She Knows How it Goes

Sometimes you have a conversation that changes everything. I had one tonight and it was good. Sweet relief.

a moony year

Come a little bit closer
Hear what I have to say
Just like children sleepin'
We could dream this night away.

But there’s a full moon risin'
Let’s go dancin' in the light
We know where the music’s playin'
Let’s go out and feel the night.

Because I'm still in love with you
I want to see you dance again
Because I'm still in love with you
On this harvest moon.

When we were strangers
I watched you from afar
When we were lovers
I loved you with all my heart.

But now it's gettin' late
And the moon is climbin' high
I want to celebrate
See it shinin' in your eye.

Because I'm still in love with you
I want to see you dance again
Because I'm still in love with you
On this harvest moon.

Anniversary in Boston

It's coming on a year since Leslie and I joined tinder and spark and lit the flame that's burning brighter than I could have ever dreamed. We return to Boston this weekend to celebrate.

Part II

The fact that I'm blogging about how I haven't been, means that I want to, so what do I have to share? Nothing much I guess. Maybe that's why I haven't been blogging. Montreal was about the heart and maybe the soul (yes they are different in my mind). Ottawa is a cynical place. Here you will more likely meet neighbours who are afraid of you. Not always but more often. Also since so many jobs are plugged into politics either directly or indirectly there is a quiet about opinion. I know that night sound strange since ideally politics should be about making opinions known through fighting for them. There is also activism, but take the case of the civil servant who went to the human rights tribunal after she was fired for her own activism in areas not directly related to federal politics.

in short Ottawa is not a place for my heart. Maybe I was too romantic about my connections to the area and the past, to the valley and the hills and the river.

Whats

I guess that it's time for a new blog. I'm not sure but every so often the blogging sprits leave me. This time is the longest period. I guess I've been busy working, looking fo work, working some more, looking for a place to live, finding a place to live, working, packing, unpacking, working and getting ready for Boston!!!

But still the Glob ain't what it used to be. It feels like an abandoned candy store. The one on the corner whose hey day was in another century.

Sadly this post is almost a replication of the previous one.

Bury Me Not

I feel like I have abandoned the Glob. It's been a busy time looking for a new apartment, finding a new apartment, packing; looking for work finding work, working; unpacking. My life last weekend was contained in a truckload of wine boxes. I emptied the last few yesterday. It took a week to get the phone and internet going, way to go deregulation. In some ways it was great to not have a phone or internet. Despite the inconvenience there was something very tranquil about it. On the other hand it meant not being in touch with Leslie like we are used to and that was less than ideal.
We had to resort to snail mail.

However next week we will be together in Boston, and I can't wait. Together we will mark our first year together.

The new place is more my type of place. Lot's of light, old and funky. Details and photos to come. It's St. Patty's Day and I must go have a shower.

Heard it Through the Jape Vine

Here's a joke I heard today.

Q: What kind of bees wear bras?
A: Boo-bees.

Now your asking "what has happened to the Glob?"

Back

Well I think I finally put my servers issues to rest. It was an old e-mail address that I had forgotten about that took up most of the server with spam. I deleted the old address so hopefully things will go smoothly from here on in.

Tonight we were sitting around the kitchen table eating homemade pizza and drinking wine when a deep rumble moved through the room. We stared at each other as if somone just burped or farted. Yes it was an earthquake, but it felt like a heavy truck driving by.

We are indeed on a faultline that runs to Montreal.I would say that people are exaggerating in this report. Things did shake but it was maybe to the count of five at tops.; nowhere near the reported two minutes, at least not in the city.

Making Sense of Smell

A chain of events. Living in a stream of consciousness. I lit a stick of incense and I began to wonder about the history of burning things in order to experience the sensation of smell. I then found this passage from A Brief History of Incense by Margaret McGoverne.

when we smell a scent, we are registering a physical molecule that disconnects itself from its carrier and drifts in the air, arriving through the nose to the mucous membrane which has millions of odor-receptor cells and cilia to catch and identify scent molecules in the air. Unlike our other four senses, the nerve system for smell is directly exposed to its source of stimulation.

From this I became more interested in the way the sense of smell functions. Thinking back to Memory's Ghost, I was curious about how odours seem to be strongly connected to emotional memory. What I found in the scientific literature is that indeed the neural complexes that are involved with the sense of smell are associated with or are the same ones that process emotional states. However it has been shown that the memories triggered by smell are not necessarily accurat. This doesn't surprise given that emotional experience is somehow tied up in creativity/fantasy rather than rationality and the procedures of logic.

A smell isn't stimulated indirectly as vision is by reflected light, or sound is by the movement of airwaves, touch is altogether something different, but smell like taste is a direct engagement with matter. Smell again is different from taste in that the matter sensed is generally invisible and more often than not unsolicited. When we taste something there is a process of choice that is very different than smell.

Back to incense. Luna, my dog, left the room when I lit the incense stick. She seemed to be wary of the flame from the match. I just walked out to the living room and gave her a pat. When I did so the perfume of the incense wafted out of her fur. It made me think about the fact that most animals use smell much more than humans do. We are the moles in a world that depends on scent. I also thought about how her fur must store so much information in the form of scents. How in a way it is not only something that regulates body temperature but stores information that can be read through olfactory senses. A freshly washed dog will typically go and roll around restoring as best it can all of that lost information (or perhaps disinformation). We as humans have weak senses of smell we have a deficit of 'fur'/hair compared to other mammals. Is there a relationship. It's hard to say, but it's scent for thought. And as my old friend Trish once said Shampoo smells better than real poo.

Railing

Last night I watched a program about the resurgence of riding the rails in the US. They covered the Hobo tradition and culture that came after of the civil war and flowered in the 1930s depression, and then talked about a group called the FTRA (Freight Train Riders of America) founded in the 1980s. The history of the FTRA varies depending on the telling but in general the FTRA is described as a loosley affiliated gang of rail riding men, mostly 30 years of age and up, who are extremely violent and belligerent. They are known to engage in assaults, rape and murder of train hoppers. They are also speculated to be violently racist and embrace an ethos of 'white power' and neo-nazism. It's not clear however how much of this is speculation since not much is documented except that the group exists. One version of the origins of the FTRA as told by William G. Palmini is that

the FTRA was formed in 1984 in a bar in White Fish, Montana, as reaction to the government cutbacks in social welfare that were being implemented under the Reagan Administration. One of the original FTRA members that has the same name as the legendary frontiersman - Daniel Boone, saw a freight train imprinted with the letters “XTRA.” He changed the X to an F to stand for a 4 letter word and gave the group a new name,“F--k The Reagan Administration.” Overtime the initials changed to stand for Freight Train Riders of America.

In the program interviews with old time freight car hoppers however indicated that the group was violent enough to drive a number of the old timers from using the rails anymore.

Train hopping took on some youth culture cache in the late 1990s with numerous articles appearing in the press including one in SPIN magazine (July 1998) by Lucius Shepard (A book Two Trains Running derived from his experiences researching the SPIN article followed. Young train hoppers are sometimes referred to as "yohos" as in this 2005 article from The Tyhee by Amy Chow. The romance of the the rail is apparent in the writing of one young hopper who goes by the pen name of Jolene. She describes the freedom and beauty she experiences, but no doubt there is real danger involved as she describes a brief encounter with an FTRA member who is definitely threatening.

It's fascinating and sometimes chilling to see how people who don't fit neatly into the social landscape are squeezed out and arise inside of alternative social entities that fill the cracks and empty spaces of the dominant society; in this case the railyards and line. The fascinating part is how they create there own rules, lore and standards however loosely defined. The chilling part is that our boundaries don't necessarliy carry over and new ones are carved out sometimes literally in the bodies of other human beings left to rot in the bushes along the tracks.

The Blood of Wotan?

I know that the new Pope is German but replacing the chalice of wine with a mighty beer seems a bit sacreligious don't you think?

Do, the stuff I buy beer with
Re, the guy who sells me beer
Mi, the guy I buy beer for
Fa, a long way to the store
So, I think I'll have a beer
La, la la la la la la
Ti, no thanks I'll have a beer
which will bring us back to Doh, doh doh doh...

- Homer Simpson

Sunshine on Lethe

"Even as you read these words, a tiny portion of your brain is physically changing. New connections are being sprouted -- a circuit that will create a stab of recognition if you encounter the words again."
from In the Palaces of Memory by George Johnson

Lethe



I'm reading a book called Memory's Ghost by Philip J. Hilts in which he quotes a similar passage from In the Palaces of Memory

It's all quite profound. The book asks the reader to acknowledge the liquid nature of our being, our sense of self, our identity and the relationship between these frameworks and the organic basis of it all and then to reconcile all of this with how substantial we feel. What is a life without memory? Memory's Ghost gives us an idea as it recounts the life and circumscribing events of a man who lost his short term memory due to experimental surgery intended to treat epilepsy in 1953.

He goes by the name of Henry M. Portions of his brain were removed during the surgery in hopes that it would cure his epilepsy. The results were that he was unable to form new memories thereafter.

From the book: "Each new moment has no connection to what happened a minute or an hour or a week or a year before. He is perpetually waking from a dream, suspended in uncertainty about what day it is and what lies ahead"
henry didn't know where he lived, he didn't recognize the faces he saw or the objects of daily life. He was in some ways born each day except for the fact that he did retain his long term memory. He could speak english, he could dress, he knew what a door was but never where it went. He depended upon written language. Instructions. Most curiously to me he was aware that he was lacking something for which he had no words; no point of reference.

Now take the BBC Face Memory Test

Sandy Hill Dendrites

The same thing that makes life so scary also makes it so wonderful. We just don't know what twists and turns lie ahead. I'm moving to a new apartment soon. My room-mate decided that he wanted to move into a house with his friends and I was given the choice to find another place or to find a new roomate or both. I decided on both. Unlike a few years ago when the vacancy rate was among the lowest in North America it's now a renters market (and this despite the strong job market). With that knowledge it was easy to see that it would be easier to find a place to share than to seek a roomate. That is to say that there were likely more people looking to fill empty spaces than people to move into them.

I started looking a couple of weeks ago and my theory held water, however I own a sweet pooch. Finding a place where a strange dog was welcome proved to narrow my options. At one point I thought that I had found the ideal place, two sunny rooms for me, balcony in the Glebe and dogs welcome. Turns out that meant only hairless breeds and poodles. as the person already established in the place qualified that she meant dogs who don't shed due to her allergies.

At that point I felt like a boat lost at sea. In a moment of desparate anger I threw a message in a bottle into that placid blue expanse in the form of an ad on craigslist. "Dog owner looking for same to share 2 bedroom" The next morning Jan responded.

Jan and I met two days later. Ottawa is a village. I called her on my cell from the Main library at the corner of Metcalfe and Laurier and asked her where would be convenient to meet. "Manhattan Cafe" she said. I had no idea where that was. Jan explained to me where it was and that she worked right across the street. When I hung up I realized that I too was right across the street from that same cafe. I was looking right at the Manhattan Cafe.

We met and it was very easy. In fact Jan had the demenour of someone that I had known for years. The following Saturday we met with the dogs. Jan's dog Sedona is an Australian cattle dog/husky. She is about Luna's size, a year older and has a very similar temperament, which is friendly, but happy to do her own thing.

We set off straight away looking for a place to live as strange as that is. Nothing very suitable came up and in fact the best place we saw worked it's way into my dreams that night in the form of a nightmare. It wasn't that the place was so awful, but it was close to where I lived as a child and there was an overload, a flood, of childhood energies that I found hard to contain.

We kept looking, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday... Wednesday we found the place. It's on a quite tree lined street. The houses are all old and grand. Red bricks, greystone, gingerbread adornment and Victorian ornament. The house is haunted too. It feels that way as it is old and tall and broad. It has strange bends from the way it sinks in places into the sandy soil, from where Sandy Hill gets its name.
It's a large place on the second floor with a bay window a balcony and an olde fireplace, hardwood floors that tilt at funny angles, a large kitchen, a sun room off the back. It's the kind of place that once were a dime a dozen in Montreal, loaded with character.

Haunted. I walked by it last night with Luna just too see how it felt. It felt good. It felt like the kind of place where an old Ray Bradbury weird tale might be set or a radio play from 1947. I can't wait to move in.

My head Just Exploded

If you are in the mood for a little brain gymnastics here is an interesting interview with German physics professor Anton Zeilinger >> .

Here's an interesting article as well about 'sprites' enormous jellyfish like phenomena that appear in fractions of seconds in electrical storms>>

The Exhilarator takes recombines the drawings and captions from old magazine cartoons with hilarious random results. A dadist delight. (Thanks to Leslie for finding this)
Some examples of randomness:

The Wild Kangaroos of France

It is said that in the ancient forest of Rambouillet France live wild kangaroos. The story goes that they have been living there for about 30 years, ever since escaping from a wildlife park. Every once in a while someone will hit one with their car. Imagine what happens when they try to file an insurance claim. Apparently other exotic creatures live their too >>

However all that being said I can't find any pictures of the kangaroos or the signs on line which raises my suspicions. Nor can I find any external reference to the wildlife park "Emance" that the kangaroos are said to have escaped from. Urban Legend?

I Don't Say It Enough. I love Her!

The leaves have lost hold of the branches as always
And leaves us with gold and wine coloured pathways
In the same way I've
The same way I’ve fallen for you;
You opened your arms like a school door to summer days
And opened my heard to the rumours of a higher place
Now where was I
Baby I've fallen for you

Love is always on the go
It never stays in one place
Day by day it changes and it grows
But you always recognize its face

Day by day it changes and it grows
But you always recognize its face

The leaves have lost hold of the branches as always
And leaves us with gold and wine colored pathways
In the same way I've
The same way I've fallen for you

Like the star in the night
Baby I've fallen for you